Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 85885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
“Okay,” Charlie murmured. “Just tell me if you need a break.”
As Charlie poked and prodded his cut, Rye’s mind drifted. He breathed in the scent of jasmine and imagined he was walking through Discovery Park in the late spring. He used to go all the time. There was a bend in the trail where the light broke through the mammoth trees and fell on passersby like glitter. There was a spot where the trees opened onto the outcropping that revealed the ocean. A place where you could trace the stratigraphy of thousands and thousands of years of rock, mud, rock, mud, sand, mud, rock.
Once, he’d seen a baby seal lying on the beach, fat and glorious and seeming to smile in the sunlight. He’d been with Maya then, and she’d packed a picnic of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and Oreos. She said just because you couldn’t cook didn’t mean you couldn’t have a picnic. They’d sat on the sand and tossed bits of the jelly side of the sandwiches on the ground to watch them be plucked up by gulls diving in reckless, graceful arcs.
That had been a good day.
“All right,” Charlie said, voice soft and low. “Last alcohol smell and then I’ll dress it.”
Rye hadn’t been to Discovery Park in years. It had been ages since he’d seen Maya.
“Okay.”
Maybe once it got warmer here he could be outside again. Maybe he could walk through the woods around the house. Or find a cheap chair and sit outside. After all, he didn’t live in the city anymore.
“Rye. Rye.” A hand landed on his shoulder. “Hey.”
Rye opened his eyes. Charlie was close and looked worried.
“Is it done?” He didn’t look at his leg.
“Yeah.”
He glanced down to see a white bandage taped around his shin.
“Is it okay?”
Charlie nodded. “I put antibiotic ointment on it. You need to keep it clean. I’ll change the dressing in a day or two.”
“Like salad,” he heard himself say nonsensically.
Charlie squeezed his shoulder, then stood and offered him a hand. He got a whiff of alcohol and reached up to take it. Charlie lifted his weight like it was nothing and eased the shampoo bottle out of his hand.
For a moment, they stood close together. Charlie’s eyelashes were a dark rust color. He had freckles on his forehead and on his cheeks above his beard. His eyes looked so fucking green. He had freckles on his eyelids.
Charlie gave him a small smile, his eyelashes fluttering.
Rye kissed him.
Charlie’s full lips were soft and his beard tickled Rye’s chin. Rye smelled wood shavings and clean sweat and a uniquely Charlie-smelling heat, but before Rye had a chance to taste him, Charlie pulled away and Rye lurched forward.
“What are you doing?”
Rye’s head was swimming. “I thought... I... I don’t know, shit. I’m sorry!”
His heart was pounding in his ears, threatening to take over his whole body. He backed toward the doorway.
“Rye, stop,” Charlie called after him, but Rye was already out the door, heading for the living room.
He’d fucked it up. He’d completely fucked things up. Bad call, bad call, bad call.
Jane and Marmot weren’t in the living room anymore. Rye called for Marmot but got no yip in response.
Charlie caught up to him.
“I’m so sorry,” Rye said again.
He dared a glance at Charlie’s face, not sure what type of anger or scorn he might find, but Charlie looked confused.
“It’s okay,” he said immediately.
“No. It’s not.”
Charlie called for Jane like he could deflect the focus onto the cat. It made Rye’s stomach hurt.
Could he get a Lyft from here? His phone was still plugged into the USB cord in Charlie’s truck. Where was Marmot?
“Let me get you some socks,” Charlie said, and hurried away.
Rye’s stomach was in knots. His clothes probably weren’t dry yet and there was no way he could walk all that way in oversized sweats with a cat in his arms. And he needed his phone.
Charlie tossed him a pair of wool socks that bounced off his chest and onto the rug. Rye stared at them.
“Your laundry won’t be done for another hour or so,” Charlie said, all business again. “Do you want to wait, or should I take you home now and I can drop it off for you later?”
Rye blinked. Charlie wasn’t quite meeting his eyes.
“Are we...? I...? Should we...?”
Charlie said nothing. The awkwardness was exquisite.
“Uh. Okay, then. Whichever’s easier,” Rye said.
Charlie shook his head. No help from that quarter.
Rye just wanted to get out of there. He couldn’t stand looking at Charlie; being looked at.
“Now I guess,” Rye got out. “I can get my clothes later.”
“Okay.”
But Charlie just stood there. He touched his chin, then his mouth.
“Do you know where the cats are?”
He walked out of the room and reappeared a few minutes later with Marmot in his arms. Rye reached for her, pulled her to his chest, and held her a little tighter than she liked. She smelled like wood shavings.